


in the seventh heaven

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - teacher!George, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 20:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: After so many years, after the virtual disappearance of his friend from the England U18 squad in 2009, after a hundred attempts to find him – this was where Owen found George? At a parents’ evening appointment for his son, in December 2024? He couldn’t believe it.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Comments: 21
Kudos: 30





	in the seventh heaven

**Author's Note:**

> How better to distract yourself from thinking about the World Cup final than with a healthy dose of AU fluff?
> 
> Title taken from the Abba song 'When I Kissed the Teacher' (of course).

“Remember, Tommy, we’ve got to be good now,” Owen said, crouching down to look his son in the eyes. “We need to make a good impression on your teacher, okay?”  
“It’s only parents’ evening,” Tommy said with a hint of annoyance. “Mr Ford likes me already.”  
Owen sighed, then took Tommy’s hand. “That’s alright for you, little man. I haven’t met him before, so try and help me, please?” The five-year-old shrugged. Owen could tell it was the best he was going to get, so he opened the door into the Year One classroom.

Whenever he had picked Tommy up from school in the past few months, he had noticed the cleanliness of the room – bright posters exactly parallel on the walls, adorably tiny chairs tucked under the tables, and neat piles of books on the shelves. He’d never actually met his son’s teacher, since Mr Ford usually ran tag rugby sessions for the older pupils after school, but he could imagine rugby being a useful topic of conversation if they exhausted Tommy’s (obviously stellar) scholastic performance.

He was still looking around the room when the teacher at the desk said, “Hello again, Tommy.” Owen’s ears pricked up at the northern accent, so familiar yet out of place in a small Harpenden primary school.  
“Hi, Mr Ford,” Tommy chirped, tugging Owen towards the front of the classroom. “This is my dad.”

“Hello, Mr Farrell,” Mr Ford said, coughing lightly when Owen didn’t look at him. Owen obligingly followed his son’s reverent gaze to the desk.

He stopped. Stared. It wasn’t – it couldn’t be –

_George?_

The same shock was evident on the face of his son’s teacher. After so many years, after the virtual disappearance of his friend from the England U18 squad in 2009, after a hundred attempts to find him – this was where Owen found George? At a parents’ evening appointment for his son, in December 2024? He couldn’t believe it.

“Please take a seat, Mr Farrell,” George said, regaining his composure.  
“Owen, please,” Owen said reflexively.  
George shot him a sharp look and continued. “Mr Farrell, I’m glad to tell you that Tommy has made excellent progress this term. His reading is-”

“Are we not going to talk about this?” Owen hissed, thankful his son was distracted by one of the books on the shelves. “It’s been fifteen years, Fordy. What the hell happened to you?”  
George glared at him. “This is your son’s parents’ evening,” he said, tone clipped. “We have a five-minute slot to discuss Tommy’s performance since September. You may want to discuss the past, but I have a job to do.”

Owen sat back and zoned out as George ran through a list of reading assessment criteria. His head was spinning. Fifteen years of nothing, and suddenly George was back. He couldn’t believe it.

He studied George. His hair was perhaps a little longer than when they were teenagers, and he was dressed in a neat shirt and tie with a green jumper. Owen felt almost self-conscious of his Saracens hoodie by comparison. He wasn’t as lean as before, although that was probably to be expected. Managing twenty-five rowdy children and the exercise regime of a professional athlete couldn’t be the easiest job in the world.

“Do you have any questions?” George asked, jolting Owen from his reverie. He sighed, holding out a printed sheet. “All his marks are on there, if you want to read them in your own time.”  
“Um, thanks,” Owen said, struggling to process this upending of his world. “Look – I know this is parents’ evening and all that, but can I text you later? I still have your number from back then.”

George set the paper down. He folded his hands in his lap before speaking, directing his words to the table between them. “I don’t think it would be appropriate,” he said slowly, weighing each syllable. “Not least because-” he gestured towards Tommy, absorbed in his book- “but because we’ve both grown up. We’re different people now.”

Owen leaned towards him, desperate not to let this chance slip through his fingers. “I know all that – but doesn’t the past mean something to you? We were friends, George, for years. Can’t you just give me an explanation? I promise I’ll stop if you want me to.”

George’s face softened a fraction, but a noise in the corridor outside seemed to stiffen his resolve. “No, Owen. I could lose my job. And I guarantee you don’t want any of your colleagues to find out that you’re talking to me. It’s too dangerous.”

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Owen tried one last time. “Please, George. If not for the sake of what we had when we were kids, then for the future. I know you remember the chemistry we had just as well as I do. I still miss you,” he pleaded, face reddening. “Nobody has to find out. I can text you, we go for a drink, we catch up on the last decade and a half. There doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

George shook his head, resolute. “I said no, and I mean it. Anyway, to go back to Tommy’s work in science…”

There was a knock at the door, and Owen knew their time was up. “George – I don’t know when I’ll see you again. You’re never there after school, and Georgie usually does these meetings. Please, mate. I’m begging you.”

The knock came again. George’s resistance seemed to splinter. “Fine,” he said gruffly, flipping over the paper and scribbling a number on it. “I changed all my contact details, so this is for my new phone.”  
Owen took the sheets with a beatific smile. “Thank you, George. I promise you I’ll read every score on here.”  
One corner of George’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “It’s for your benefit, not mine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Tommy.”

Grinning, Owen led Tommy out of the classroom. He was walking on air. George – in Harpenden. George – his son’s teacher. George – willing to talk to him, after years of silence. He couldn’t wipe the grin from his face.

“What were you and Mr Ford talking about?” Tommy asked sleepily as Owen strapped him into his car seat. “Mummy never looks that happy about school stuff.”  
Owen ruffled his son’s hair cheerfully. “I used to know Mr Ford, a long time ago. We were really good friends. But we haven’t talked for a while.”  
“Why?” Tommy asked, stretching out his arms in a yawn. “I always talk to my friends.”  
Owen bit his lip. “I don’t know, mate. Anyway, let’s go home. It’s almost time for your bath.”

Once Tommy had been read his bedtime story and settled down to sleep, Owen headed downstairs to the living room. He slumped on the sofa, dropping the pack of paper on the table. The time was only 7:30, but after a hard day’s training and child-wrangling, he was dead on his feet. It was in that mindset that he pulled out his phone and keyed in George’s number.

_Hey George! It’s Owen. I was so surprised to see you earlier (could you tell?), but I’m really happy you agreed to talk more :) Meet up at some point soon?_

He stared at his phone for a minute until the screen went black. Maybe he was being unreasonable expecting George to reply instantly. After all, he had a job that required far more evening hours than his own did.

After Owen had made a desultory attempt to tidy away Tommy’s toys and books from where they were scattered across the floor and summarily given up, his phone lit up with a response. He grabbed it and clicked to open the message.

_Hi Owen, it was nice to see you again. As a ground rule before we go any further: you can’t tell anyone who might know me that we’re in contact. I can’t risk it._

Owen didn’t have to think twice before replying. If George wanted to stay anonymous, that was his call.

_That’s fine – when are you free?_

_Not for a few weeks. I can do next Sunday, if that works with your schedule._

Owen quickly scrolled through his calendar to find the date and time of his match.

_I have a game on the Saturday, so whenever’s good for you_

_3pm? I need to work on the choreography for the nativity in the morning._

_Are you the one organising that? Tommy won’t stop singing the song about the lost sheep and it’s driving me mad_

_And yes, that’s good_

_I pick up Tommy at six, so three works_

_Good; I’ll send you the address of a cafe near me. I’m in charge of the dance to go with the songs._

Owen bit back a laugh. The idea of the George he’d known – so quiet off the pitch, oddly insecure – teaching a hundred small children a dance about a sheep was ridiculous.

_I’m looking forward to Tommy showing me that one!_

There was a lull in the conversation, and Owen was starting to think he’d overstepped when George finally replied.

_He’s a quick learner. Better than the rest of them._

_It’s in the blood ;)_

_If you say so. I need to go over my lesson plans for the morning now, so I’ll text you later._

_Looking forward to it :D_

When it became clear that George had signed off for the night, Owen set down his phone with a satisfied sigh. Of course George was still uncertain about talking to him, but he had hope that he could win him round.

A bolt of inspiration struck. George said he didn’t want Owen to tell anyone that they were speaking. He hadn’t spoken to his parents in years. If Owen could persuade him to try contacting his parents again, and it went well, then George would be so grateful for his help that he couldn’t fail to like him.

He was about to text Joe Ford to get Mike’s number, but he paused. George seemed serious all the time now, but his request to stay clear of his parents had seemed deadly serious. He should probably suggest his bright idea to George before going all in and telling his parents where he was.

He shook his head to himself, grinning. They’d had chemistry back in the day, nobody could deny – both on the pitch and off it. And if George took to his plan and it worked, then maybe, just maybe, George would see him as more than a friend.

His gaze caught on an old photo on the wall of him, Georgie, and Tommy. Obviously, there were some barriers to get through before that could happen. He would have to come clean to George about the divorce and the reason behind it, while George needed to explain why he’d isolated himself so absolutely from his former life. A mutual amnesty would be in order, he reflected.

The weekend’s match – a strong 21-27 defeat of Exeter at Sandy Park – seemed to fly by in comparison to the five minutes he had to wait outside George’s selected coffee shop. He tried to keep his head down, but there wasn’t much way to avoid attention as a famous rugby player. If George didn’t want people to know where he was, then meeting the England captain in public was a risky move.

Just as the numbers on Owen’s phone flipped on to 15:00 – not that he was checking – someone coughed behind him. He span around.  
“Want to go in?” George said, tipping his head to the door.  
“After you,” Owen said, stepping back. He didn’t want to spook his friend. (Former friend? Ex- friend? Soon-to-be friend?)

George directed him towards a secluded table at the back of the cafe while he went to get the drinks. Owen tapped on the table nervously. He’d had experience with dates since the divorce, and he went out for coffee with friends fairly regularly. But none of those events had the same gravity surrounding them, that edge of _mess this up and you lose him forever._

“I got you a cappuccino,” George said as he slid the coffee cups off the tray. “From what I remember, that fits the diet plan.”  
“Thanks, mate,” Owen said, touched by the concern. “I appreciate that.”  
Lifting a shoulder in acknowledgement, George took a long sip of his own drink.

“So, um,” Owen started uncertainly, “I want to ask what you’ve been up to, but I don’t know if you want to tell me that.”  
“It’s okay,” George murmured stiffly. “It had to happen at some point.” He carefully set down his cup, and Owen looked away from the trembling of his hands.

“I don’t know how much you remember from England U18s – the beginning of the 2008/09 season.”  
“Just – you were this tiny kid, only fifteen, and you ran rings around us all,” Owen said with a fond smile. “The older lads were so pissed.”  
“Yeah, they were,” George said quietly. “They teased me for a bit, and then it turned into outright bullying. You’d moved up to the proper Saracens squad by the Six Nations, but that was the worst time.”

“You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,” Owen said urgently, leaning forwards and making eye contact. “You shouldn’t have to relive it.”  
George shook his head. “It’s important for you to understand. Basically, they would insult me about my size, and how that apparently made me gay. And then – then-” he dropped his gaze- “after the final game of the tournament, I snapped and said, ‘So what if I am?’” Owen’s jaw dropped. “Obviously after that it just got worse. Players from so many teams would text me homophobic stuff. It got so bad that I told my mum. She told my dad. He basically said it was my fault for even letting them think that.” George swiped at his eyes. “That’s when I knew I had to leave.”

Owen sucked in a breath. “God, George. I’m so sorry. I – I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”  
“It’s in the past now,” George said, looking past him. His face was red and blotchy. “There was a reason I never went home after I went to uni.” Owen twisted his fingers together, nervous energy thrumming through him. He’d been there for the start of it; all those throwaway comments, just a bit of banter. He never realised how it had escalated. Grown out of all proportion until it drove one of the most promising junior players in the country out of the game.

“Hey, uh – in the spirit of getting everything out on the table now,” he said awkwardly, wiping his hands on his jeans, “I’m-” he swallowed- “I’m bi. That’s why Tommy’s mother and I divorced. I know that doesn’t help all you went through, but…” He trailed off. “I don’t know. Maybe I can understand, if you want to talk about it?”

George sighed. “Thanks for the offer, but no. There need to be some boundaries between us, for Tommy’s sake. It wouldn’t be professional.”  
“Okay,” Owen nodded. “If you don’t want to talk about the deep stuff, that’s fine. Tell me about something else?”  
George gave a small smile. “There isn’t much to say. I teach Year One at Roundwood, but you already know that. I run the school tag rugby club. Sometimes I go into London to see friends from university.”

Owen latched onto the admission like a lifeline. “What did you study? I did a degree in business part-time at Hertfordshire ages ago, but I can’t see myself doing anything with it.”  
George bit his lip with a wry smile. “English – so even more useless. I’d already chosen my A-levels when I quit rugby, and PE and psychology weren’t that interesting.”  
“I don’t know – I think psychology could be, if you were in the right area.”  
George hummed. “Some of the stuff we did at A-level – attachment, that kind of thing – just hit too close to home at that point. But I did English, then teacher training, and now I’m here.”

“So you could say it turned out alright in the end,” Owen said, aiming for levity and missing by a mile.  
George shrugged. “That’s one way of looking at it.”  
“Don’t you ever wish you could go home, though?” Owen asked, mindful of his mission in gaining his old friend’s favour.  
“No,” George said shortly. “Those two years after I came out were the worst years of my life. There’s no way I’m going back.”

Owen looked down at his cup. “Okay. I’m sorry I brought it up.”  
George appeared somewhat mollified by the apology. “It’s fine. Most people don’t understand until they find out the details.” He pushed back from the table. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I need to get on with my prep for next week. The dance isn’t coming together as well as I’d hoped.”

Owen grinned at the grimace on his face. “That’s okay – I look forward to seeing the results from Tommy soon!” He caught George’s arm as he turned to leave. “I can still text you, right?” George nodded quickly, pulled on his coat, and was gone.

Owen drained the cup and followed suit. As he walked down the road to where his car was parked, he thought back on the meeting. Clearly, there was a lot more going on in George’s life than he first imagined. The grand plan of reuniting the Fords was out, for starters. He’d painted a picture of a small life, but a comfortable and safe one. If that was what George wanted, then that was good for him.

He got out his phone and sent a quick follow-up text to George.

_Good to talk today – same time next week?_

The phone pinged almost immediately. George must have been walking home.

_Unfortunately I can’t do next week (friends coming over). I’ll text you, though._

_That’s fine, whenever you’re free works for me_

_:)_

Owen’s heart lifted at the sight of the emoji. It looked like the botched reunification attempt hadn’t destroyed his chance. Because of George’s commitment to his job (which Owen could support), they wouldn’t be able to do anything in the romantic category until the end of the school year at the earliest. Owen had a lot of time to work with, and one reclusive schoolteacher to work on.

The next few weeks passed with a series of lengthening text conversations. Each time Owen’s phone beeped with a message from George, an immediate grin spread across his face. It was a struggle to hide it from Tommy, who had entered the incessant ‘why?’ stage of development, but it was worth it.

By the end of the Christmas term, they’d progressed to phone calls or even video calls (although that was usually to accommodate George simultaneously working on his laptop and thus needing his hands free). One Saturday evening, with Tommy safely installed at Georgie’s house, Owen dared to initiate the conversation.

“Yeah, so this really funny thing happened to me yesterday,” he said with a grin, watching George’s profile as he scrolled through spreadsheets (or something equally dull). “You’ll love it.”  
“Mmm,” George said, gaze flicking over to the phone camera. “Go on.”

“So basically, I dropped Tommy off at school yesterday morning and went straight to training. Me and Ethan were planning to trick Max into going out for skills late by changing all the clocks, but it turned out he’d locked all the doors before we could get in! We looked like absolute idiots with the rest of the lads stood inside laughing at us.” He stopped and peered at the screen. George’s jaw was clenched and his eyes were fixed on the computer screen. “Oh, shit. Sorry, mate. I – well, I didn’t forget. I’m so sorry; I know you don’t like hearing about rugby.”

“It’s okay,” George said through gritted teeth. “It was just a shock, is all. I like hearing about your day, and stuff you enjoy. It’s important to me.”  
Owen preened through the guilt. “Are you sure? That means a lot.”  
George locked eyes with him through the screen. “You won’t be so happy next time when I get to tell you about all the vomiting children.”  
“I’m excited already,” Owen chirped, a warm glow in his chest.

Sadly, George wasn’t so amenable the next time he called. It was the night of the Saracens Christmas party, and Owen was feeling somewhat morose about being one of the oldest there. Elliot and Jamie, mature as ever, decided the only solution was to ply him with alcohol.

Consequently, by ten pm Owen was swaying on his feet, having been left by his two friends for the pleasures of the bar. His head was strangely heavy; he hadn’t drunk much since the divorce, trying to be a good father for Tommy. Tommy – his son’s name provoked a rush of emotion: hope, love, worry. As the pressure behind his eyes throbbed, someone else’s face swam into his mind.

Calling George – that was a good idea. They hadn’t spoken for a few days. He would be so pleased to hear from Owen, especially as it was a Friday night so there wasn’t any school stuff to be done. Somehow still aware of George’s request for anonymity, he found an empty corridor and sat down cross-legged to make the call.

“Owen?” George’s voice came through the speaker. “Are you alright? You didn’t text before like usual.”  
“No, I’m, I’m great,” Owen said, slurring his words. “Wanted to hear your voice.”  
“Are you drunk?” George asked suspiciously. “Is there someone with you?”

“It’s fine,” Owen giggled. “Jinx an’ Elliot gave me some stuff. But it’s fine now – I hid so I could call you.”  
“Okay,” George said, still sounding uncomfortable. “I’m not entirely sure this is appropriate, given-”

Owen ploughed through his words. “I’m so happy I found you, mate. It’s like – I have my rugby boys, and I have you. Although you’re sort of a rugby boy.”  
“Owen,” George said warningly, “I’m going to have to hang up on you. I’m still your son’s teacher, remember. We’ve got to be careful.”

“I am being careful!” Owen protested loudly. “That’s why I’m in a corridor, not in the party.” His voice dropped. “I’ll take care of you, baby.”  
George made a strangled noise. “Call me back tomorrow when you’ve sobered up, Owen. I hope you have a nice night, but we can’t talk like this.”  
Owen groaned. “George – I was trying to be nice! You need someone to look after you. You’ve been by yourself for so long.”

“Goodbye, Owen,” George said firmly, and the call clicked off. Owen thunked his head back against the wall. Oops. George was always so definite about the boundaries between his personal and school lives: he’d definitely stepped over the line in that conversation. Jinx and Elliot’s fault, of course, but he should have been monitoring himself better. Clearly, there was no better way to endear yourself to the object of your romantic interests than to ring him and make unwanted drunken advances. Nice one, Faz.

As he was dragging himself back to the main room, an idea dropped into his head. He wasn’t allowed to give George a Christmas present, which was the obvious way of making up to him, but he could try and invite him to a game. Then the ticket would be a form of present, George could start his rugby rehabilitation, and Owen would be able to dazzle him with his skills. He pulled out his phone and made a note of the thought; there was no way it was surviving his hangover tomorrow morning.

Unfortunately (but perhaps foreseeably), George wasn’t particularly receptive of his bright idea when he brought it up the next week. “It’s not that I don’t like rugby as a sport,” he said slowly, “it’s the culture around it that I can’t stomach. It’s all the laddish banter.”

Owen could hear the air quotes around the last word. “I promise you, things have changed since you were last involved.”  
“How?” George’s voice was hard and challenging.

Owen cast around for some proof. “Well – Alex Lozowski’s been open about his boyfriend for years. Nobody’s given him any shit for it.”  
“And would he be happy knowing you’d just outed him to a stranger?” George said.  
Owen growled in frustration. It was like talking to a brick wall sometimes with George. “Look – it’s pretty much an open secret at this point. Just look at his Instagram or something – George Davies is in about half the photos.”

“Fine,” George conceded. “I’m sure your locker room is lovely and accepting. That still doesn’t make me want to go.”  
Owen bit his lip. “What’s the problem, mate? It’s 2025, for God’s sake.”

“It’s the environment,” George began, selecting each word with care. “Rugby clubs are where it started, and it doesn’t feel like it’s stopped since.” His voice shook. “It took me ages just to get used to hearing your accent – it was so like my dad’s, it terrified me when you turned up to parents’ evening.” Owen sighed. It was going to be a long road back for George.

“What I’m trying to say is – I’d love to, Owen, if it was just a match and nothing else. But it’s everything surrounding that, everything telling me I don’t belong, that I shouldn’t be there.”

Owen could tell he was fighting a losing battle. “Okay. I see where you’re coming from, but I still wish you’d give it a chance. You love the game, and you don’t know what the crowd is like these days because you haven’t been in years.”  
George coughed. “Look, I’ll think about it. I’m making no promises, and it won’t be any time soon, but I’ll think about it.”

Owen grinned, disappointment suddenly converted into buzzing success. “Right. Keep me updated, yeah? I need to get some food now, but we’ll talk in a few days.” George said his farewells and ended the call. Owen nodded his head in his empty living room.

This relationship was so much more about give and take than any he’d ever had before; most of the time he was happy to rub along with people, but now George’s past meant he had to be so much more considerate of his friend’s feelings and potential reactions. It probably wasn’t a bad thing, he acknowledged. They didn’t teach it at the Saracens academy, but it could be a useful life skill anyway.

The next time they spoke was the Thursday of the next week. Owen had just come in from a contact session with the team, smeared all over with January mud. Just in case, he checked his phone, not expecting anything other than the usual messages from the team Whatsapp. Instead, he found several missed calls, an email from the school, and a text from George.

He clicked on the text first, as it was the most recent.

_Owen – the school tried ringing you and you weren’t picking up, so I thought I’d try this. Tommy’s got a temperature and the nurse thinks he should go home. He’s fine, just a little whiny and irritable. Whenever you can get here is great. George_

Owen exhaled. The influx of messages had had him worried, but George’s words brought his heart rate back down. It was only a temperature – little kids got them all the time. Conscious of the mud all over his kit, he pulled off his boots and went to find Mark.

He rapped on the door of the head coach’s office hesitantly, not entirely sure if he would be inside. “Come in,” Mark called. Owen wiped the worst of the dirt off his hands and opened the door.  
“Hi, Mark,” he said uncertainly. He hadn’t had much cause for leaving training early at any point in the last decade and a half, so this was unusual for both of them.

“What’s up, Faz?” the coach said, gesturing at a chair and then shaking his head with a smile.  
“Tommy’s ill at school, and it’s my day with him,” Owen said in a rush, shifting from foot to foot. “Do I have your permission to go and pick him up?”  
“Of course, mate,” Mark said, waving him away. “Let me know how the little one’s doing, okay? And take tomorrow off too if you need it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s only Worcester. We should be fine.” With a mock salute, Owen backed out of the room.

Having hastily explained the situation to Brad and Jamie, showered, and changed, Owen jumped in his car and drove to the school. It was only just twelve, so most of the kids would be outside on their lunch break. Hopefully Tommy wasn’t too miserable. George would look after him, Owen was sure.

He went to the reception and was shown to the nurse’s office. Through the door, he could see Tommy curled up on the bed, mostly asleep, while George and the nurse were talking quietly. He knocked on the door and let himself in.

“Mr Farrell,” George said, looking up with a smile.  
“Afternoon,” Owen said stiffly, aware of the nurse stood by his side.  
“Thank you for coming in so quickly,” the nurse said. “He’s currently running a temperature of 38.5, so it’s nothing overly serious, but it’s best if he goes home for a rest.” Owen nodded, stealing a glance at George who seemed amused by the formality of it all.

There was a knock on the door, and the nurse poked her head out. “I need to go and deal with an incident in the playground,” she said with a grimace, “so can you show Tommy and his dad out, Mr Ford?” George nodded, turning back to Owen as the nurse hurried out.

“Hey, Owen,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about Tommy, but – it’s good to see you.”  
Owen smiled at him. “You too, mate. Um… Is all his stuff here?” he asked, casting around for something to say.  
“I think so. Or at least, Katie the LSA said it was. You should be fine.”

“Okay. I’d better get our kid home, then,” Owen said, crouching down by the bed and stroking his son’s shoulder. “Hey, little one. We’re going home now, yeah?” Tommy looked at him balefully and scrunched up his face. “Are you getting up, or should I carry you?” He was painfully conscious of George stood not two feet away, clearly the expert on small children out of the two of them.

Tommy held out his arms wordlessly, so Owen scooped him up along with his schoolbag and lunchbox. “We’ll be off then,” he said to George, who was watching them fondly. Tommy snuggled into his neck and he held him tighter on instinct. “Thanks for looking after him for me.”  
“It’s not a problem,” George replied, clearing his throat. “He’s a sweet kid. You’ve done a good job with him.”

Owen walked towards the door, but, realising his hands were full, said, “Could you, um-” he tipped his head towards the door.  
“Sure,” George said, opening it. “I’ll see you soon, Tommy,” he whispered as they passed.  
“Thanks, mate. I’ll text you.”  
“Okay. Hope it’s all good.”

Owen walked out into the carpark, holding Tommy close to his chest. The little boy did feel warm against his skin. It was a good thing he had such a caring teacher. “In you go,” he murmured as he strapped Tommy into his seat. He was drooping with sleep, and Owen was glad the headrest would keep him upright.

The next few – six? Eight? Ten? – hours blurred together. Tommy was constantly restless, whining and fussing. Even the medicine didn’t seem to be helping. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, he seemed to sink into sleep and Owen heaved a sigh of relief. His son’s irritability was starting to rub off on him. He’d decided to put Tommy in his king bed for easier monitoring, but the boy had ended up sprawled in the middle in such a way that there was no possibility of Owen configuring himself safely around the edges.

Instead, he dragged in a chair and sat down, ready to wait out the minutes until Tommy woke up again. But the hours dragged past, as one Farrell slept and the other watched. His alarm went off at six am, and he lunged at his bedside table to silence it. Fortunately, Tommy hadn’t noticed the beeping.

Owen groaned at the prospect of a full day after his broken night. There was nothing useful he could do at this point, which only made it worse. Although…

Fuzzy from the lack of sleep, he grabbed his phone.

_Hi George – Tommy still has a temperature, so he won’t be at school today. Hopefully just a 24-hour thing, but I’ll text again later with how he’s doing. Owen :)_

Despite the early hour, George responded almost immediately.

_Sorry to hear that. Please email me (official channels are important!) at _ [ _george.ford@roundwoodprimary.herts.scl.uk_ ](mailto:george.ford@roundwoodprimary.herts.scl.uk) _. Teacher not friend in this situation :) G_

_As a friend, obviously glad to hear it’s not worse. Make sure you sleep too, or you might get ill._

Owen rolled his eyes. Of course George knew what he’d been doing; it was probably step one in ‘How not to take care of your ill child’.

_Yes, Mr Ford. Teacher knows best_

He tacked on a crying-laughing emoji, worried how it might come across. Luckily, George must have been distracted by something at that moment and didn’t respond.

Weeks passed with Owen in that same state of hyper-consciousness of how his actions might appear to George – the impact as opposed to the intention. Each text was weighed and worried over, with each ‘casual’ touch causing an avalanche of obsession. Slowly, he managed to relax back into the comfortable friendship they’d had as teenagers. The spectre of a potential romantic relationship hung over them at all times, but for the most part he was able to dismiss it.

That was, until he decided to invite George to a game on his birthday. Admittedly, thirty-two wasn’t the most significant age, but when George had forlornly admitted that his friends were all busy and couldn’t make the trip, Owen knew he had to do something.

“How would you like to come to a Sarries game next week?” Owen asked tentatively, holding his phone against his shoulder while he packed Tommy’s lunch. “We’re playing on the Saturday, so we could go out for dinner afterwards.”  
George made a considering noise. “Who’re you playing?”  
“Bath,” Owen answered easily. “Should be a good one – but not too close, I’d hope.”

George snickered down the line. “Alright, not everyone can win quintuple triples, or whatever you lot did. When’s kick-off?”  
“Three,” Owen said, excitement bubbling up in his stomach. George seemed receptive to the idea, even enthusiastic. “I can get you a ticket, if you want,” he added cautiously. He didn’t want to rush things. He knew how that had turned out last time.

“Okay,” George said quietly. “You pay for it with your athlete salary, and I’ll watch you play.”  
Owen beamed, careful to tamp down the anticipation in his voice. “Sounds good. I’ll pick up a ticket for you tomorrow, and then Tommy can bring it in for you.”  
“Okay,” George repeated. “Where will we go afterwards?”

“There’s a restaurant a few miles away from the club,” Owen said, considering his options, “that does good Italian food. It’s pretty quiet as well,” he added, forestalling George’s question.  
“Alright, mate. I’ll be there.”

When George had ended the call, Owen let out a quiet whoop (Tommy was already in bed asleep). This was less about his romantic conquest now and more about helping George rediscover his love of rugby (or his ability to watch it). And, by any measure, he was close to achieving his goal. But – a thought struck him – if George wasn’t comfortable with the crowd, there was no way he’d cope in the locker room, or with the inevitable questions that would bring.

He shoved Tommy’s sandwiches in a bag and texted his friend.

_Hey G – just thinking, if you’d rather meet at the restaurant after the game (I’ll send the details) so you avoid the team, that’s fine by me :)_

_Thanks, that’s really kind. I know they’re your friends, but I don’t want to rush. Restaurant sounds great :D_

Owen grinned to himself. You didn’t need an English degree to find the subtext in that statement.

_No problem! Anyway, it’s your birthday_

He wasn’t so relaxed about it when the day finally came, however – and he couldn’t begin to imagine how George was feeling, after so long away. He wanted to reach out and support his friend, but then he would also run the risk of overwhelming him and spoiling the whole experience. In the end, he sent a quick text before warmups and tried to push it out of his mind.

_Hope you’re okay – looking forward to dinner later! _

There wasn’t much else he could do except play, and pray that would distract George from whatever he might be reliving in the stands. The team seemed to sense that something was up with their captain, and they ended up winning 42-17 in fine style. Owen was about two metres from the try line with the ball at one point, but to no avail. George would just have to come back again to see him get a try.

As the players walked back to the changing room through the tunnel, Owen scanned the crowd around him. He knew George was somewhere in these seats; he’d chosen one in the centre of the stand, right at the back by the steps, just in case. He couldn’t see anything, though. George must have left already.

Owen didn’t exactly rush through his post-match speech or the victory song, but nerves buzzed under his skin as time flowed by. He’d given himself an hour and a half from the end of the match to get changed and to the restaurant, with the booking at 7:30. He loved his team, but sometimes there were more important things in life.

Having fended off the physios with promises to stretch diligently at home, he escaped the Saracens’ clutches at seven pm. Drive; park; text George; find George; eat. It wasn’t a difficult plan of action, yet he found himself oddly jittery. It wasn’t that they would be talking face-to-face for the first time in weeks, or that George was probably in a fragile state of mind after the match. No, it was more that there were definite romantic connotations for this meeting.

It wasn’t a platonic thing, to invite your friend out to dinner on his birthday, alone, at a nice restaurant. Whenever he went out with Georgie, it had been a one-on-one affair. With the team – by default, there was a group of them. He’d never had a friendship like Elliot and Jamie’s, where they were attached at the hip and closer than they were to their actual romantic partners. So maybe it wasn’t the dinner, or George, that was making him nervous. Maybe it was the expectations he was putting on it and himself.

He arrived at the restaurant with five minutes to spare, texting George that he would meet him by the door. Steps one, two, and three completed: now it was time for the difficult part.

Checking his hair for a final time in the rear-view mirror, he steeled himself and got out of the car. Even from where he was, he could see the small figure silhouetted in the dusk against the lights of the restaurant front. Setting his shoulders, he walked forwards.

He alerted George to his presence with a quick cough, and George turned around with a grin. “Hi, Owen,” he said, skin around his eyes creasing. “Good game.”  
Owen was suddenly aware of how much things had changed in the last few months. “Thanks. Shall we go inside?”  
George ducked his head. “After you.”

The waiter took them to their table and handed over the menus. They scanned them in silence for a moment, before Owen spoke. “So, I was-”  
“I’d just like to-” George started, then broke off. “You go,” he said with a small smile.  
“No, you talk,” Owen argued, “it’s your birthday.”

George shrugged. “Uh – I’d like to say thank you, for making time for me today. You didn’t have to. You were at work, and you still decided to do something together. So, thank you.”  
Warmth bloomed inside Owen’s chest. “You’re welcome. I kind of wanted to do something anyway, and things just came together, y’know? It’s your birthday – you deserve someone treating you.”

George looked away. “Yeah, about that. I know we’re friends now, but I need to reiterate: we can’t be more than friends.”  
“Because of Tommy,” Owen said, good mood punctured.  
“Yeah,” George repeated softly. “Because of Tommy.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but Owen was already spiralling into despondency; he couldn’t take much more of these rejections.

Thankfully, the waiter came to take their orders at that moment. Once he’d left, Owen tried to restart the stuttering conversation. “What did you think of the game?” he asked, fiddling with his glass.  
George smiled, as if in acknowledgement of his efforts. “I enjoyed it,” he said slowly. “The rugby was good, and Saracens obviously played really well. I just – I couldn’t get into it the way I used to.” He paused. “I didn’t feel uncomfortable at any point, and the people next to me were perfectly nice, but I really struggled to get into the right headspace.”

“Why do you think…?” Owen asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.  
George sighed, locking eyes with the flyhalf. “After I quit, I spent a really long time thinking about rugby, and the culture, and all of that stuff. Basically, there are so many issues that you don’t even notice until you’re outside the bubble.” Owen stared at the table. He thought he knew where this was going. “Like, aside from the homophobia and the transphobia, there’s just the physical cost. I’m lucky because I got out of it young, but you…” He shook his head. “I can imagine how many painkillers you’re taking just to get out of bed in the morning.” Owen winced.

“Sorry, mate,” George said, twisting his fork between his fingers. “I didn’t mean to go off on one, it’s just – I’ve had a long time to think about this, and nobody to tell it to.”  
Owen smiled uncomfortably at him, ignoring an inopportune twinge in his knee. “It’s okay. I guess I know what you mean. I don’t like thinking about it, really.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” George said firmly. “We’re here for a good time, not a depressing one.” Owen couldn’t agree more, and they launched into a conversation about children’s literature (a topic which, George assured Owen, he would become an expert on soon enough).

The next few hours passed in a warm glow, brought on by more than the wine. Owen couldn’t remember having such a nice, genuinely relaxed evening in ages. The only downside was George’s repeated assertion that they could never be more than friends, because of Tommy. Obviously, Owen would accept his decision, but did he really mean never? Tommy would have a different teacher next year, and that meant the professional distance between the two men could be bridged.

_Thanks again for a lovely evening. Best birthday in years :)_

_My pleasure ;) Not every day your young man turns 32 now, is it?_

_Shut up, nerd. Talk soon x_

Staring at his screen, and the little black pixels arranged in the shape of an x, Owen grinned. It was only a couple of months until the end of the school year.

Unfortunately, the smooth ride to the summer holidays was disrupted by George catching flu the next month. The first Owen heard of it was a distraught Tommy running out of the classroom at the end of school on a Thursday and practically shrieking, “Mr Ford’s _ill_! We have to have a _supply teacher_!”

Hastily picking him up and walking out of the school gate, Owen stroked his son’s hair soothingly. “I’m sure it isn’t anything bad,” he murmured. “Probably like when you had a temperature before Christmas, remember?”  
“Y-yes,” Tommy hiccupped wetly, “but that’s not the same. Mr Ford had loads of us to keep him busy while I wasn’t there. We’ve got Mrs Davies and she’s awful and we want Mr Ford back.” He dissolved into tears. “He will come back, won’t he?”  
“Of course he will,” Owen said gently. “It might take a few days, but he’ll be back teaching before you know it.” Privately, he resolved to text George. If he wasn’t up to being in school, then it must be more serious than just a cold.

Once Tommy was calmed down and occupied with his dinner, Owen got out his phone.

_Tommy says you weren’t in today because you were ill – you alright? If there’s anything I can do, just say x _

He tucked his phone away and went back to his son. Family time was precious, and he wouldn’t be seeing much of Tommy in the Easter holidays. He was growing up so fast, too – Owen remembered Gabriel at that age, and how the years had flown by until he was an actual adult with an actual job. He didn’t want to miss that process with Tommy the way he had with his brother.

A while later, when Tommy had gone to bed, Owen texted George again.

_I know you’re probably asleep at the moment, but please tell me you’re okay. Worrying over nothing, hopefully x_

He flicked through one of Tommy’s reading books from school while he waited and unloaded the dishwasher. He glanced at the clock. It was only nine pm. Could he risk calling George? It would be a hell of a lot of explaining to do if Tommy woke up, and George might be asleep too. His finger was half a centimetre away from the ‘call’ button when a text arrived.

_Appreciate you checking in :) I think it’s just flu (not sure how in April, but there you go) x_

_I’m taking tomorrow off as well, so I should be fine after the weekend?_

_Good to hear! Apparently all the kids were whining about you not being there – you’ve got a good fan club going x_

_Hmmm. Maybe not quite up to your standards, but they’re pretty cool x_

_Up to a call?_

_Not right now :( tomorrow?_

_I could come round on Saturday? I’m being rested so I’m free whenever x_

_That would be great, thanks_

_Afternoon? It’s a bit worse in the morning, if I’m honest_

_I’ll see you then :)_

_What’s your address?_

Only at that moment did Owen realise – they’d never actually been to each other’s houses. Usually they talked on the phone, or went out for a drink or a meal. Was this another line he was crossing, taking advantage of George’s illness to further his own agenda?

_It’s okay, right? Professionalism and all that?_

_It’s fine – unless your intentions are less than honourable…_

_I’ll drop you a pin on the map x_

Owen gulped. Obviously, it wouldn’t be happening any time soon, but George making that insinuation, putting those images in his head – it was the opposite of the demure primary school teacher image that George had been projecting for so long. And saying it before Owen was going to visit his house for the first time… Glad Tommy had such an early bedtime, he dropped his phone, closed his eyes, and surrendered to the images his mind was conjuring up.

On Saturday afternoon, Owen pulled up outside George’s house with butterflies in his stomach. He’d looked it up on Google Maps so he knew he was in the right place, but it was the shaky ground on which he and George now stood which was awakening the nerves. The conversation on Thursday night – he definitely wasn’t reading into it, he was certain – and what he’d done afterwards… It wasn’t exactly professional conduct for either of them in their relationship as a teacher and a parent.

Repressing the nerves, he parked and walked up the path to the front door. It was a small house, perhaps naturally given the income of the single inhabitant. It was small, but well-maintained and cosy. He knocked on the door twice, then waited. He couldn’t have asked where the spare key was on his first visit, but making George drag himself out of bed to get the door was harsh.

“Hey,” George croaked. Owen automatically went for a hug, but pulled back at the last second. “Probably for the best,” George said with a hint of a smile. “Come in.”  
Owen obediently followed him into the living room. The sofa was covered in a nest of blankets where George was presumably resting, so he took the armchair opposite.

“How’s it going?” he asked, voice full of pity.  
“I feel disgusting,” George said thickly, blowing his nose. “I hate the child that did this to me. I haven’t been able to sleep for more than two hours at a time, and the coughing barely stops.”  
Owen pulled a face. “I can make you a cup of tea? That would help with the… congestion.”  
George smiled weakly. “Thanks. Kitchen’s back out into the hall and on your right.”

Owen ruffled George’s hair as he padded past. Then he made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. After hunting through the cupboards to find a mug and a teabag, he paused to consider the room. The only photos of George seemed to be from his late teens onwards; presumably when he’d gone to university. Before, his total separation from his family had seemed stupid and childish to Owen, but now he could see that it was only desperately sad.

The kettle clicked off and he hastily made the tea. He carried it through to the living room and set it on the low table next to George. “Do you want to watch something?” he asked lowly. “I brought my laptop if you want Netflix.”  
George took a long sip of the tea. “If you wouldn’t mind – I’ve got the 1995 ‘Pride and Prejudice’ boxset under the TV?”

Owen couldn’t hold in a laugh. “What a good little English student you are. I was going to suggest a Marvel movie, but that’s fine too.”  
“You can’t turn down Colin Firth,” George said indignantly, although the effect was spoiled slightly by his hacking cough at the end of the sentence.

Owen obediently put the disc in, then stood up to find the remote. “You can sit next to me,” George said quietly. “If you stay on one side of the blankets and I go on the other, you probably won’t be exposed to too many germs.”  
“So kind,” Owen grinned. “I love being invited into other people’s plague pits.”  
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” George said, mock-insulted.  
“No, it’s fine,” Owen replied, getting comfortable on the unoccupied end of George’s sofa. “I like being near you.”

They watched mostly in silence, with George keeling over onto Owen in sleep by the time Elizabeth and the Gardiners had arrived at Pemberley for the first time. Owen was absent-mindedly scritching at George’s scalp like he might a cat, settled by the weight of his friend in his lap. Despite the slightly stale air in the room, he felt comfortable and warm. He could only hope George would feel the same when he woke up.

After another half hour, Owen had to get up to switch the DVDs over. He carefully held up George’s head and slid a pillow under it while extracting his own body; the Saracens lads would be so impressed with that particular bit of flexibility, he thought. For such an old man, it was impressive.

That was another aspect of their relationship which was bizarre, he reflected as he ejected one DVD and put in the other. In rugby terms, he was positively ancient, while George was still young for a teacher. In spite of that, there was only a year and a half actually separating them in age: and George had undoubtedly undergone more hardship in his life than Owen, maybe even making him mentally older. It made his head hurt.

With the change successfully made, he attempted to shift George with the same care as before. Unfortunately, he was more restless and woke up as Owen raised the cushion slightly. “What’re you doing?” he asked wearily.  
“I was just swapping the DVDs,” Owen said, stroking his hair in a reassuring manner. “Do you want to keep watching?”  
“Yeah,” George yawned. “Can’t miss the Lydia subplot.”

Since George appeared happy for him to stay, Owen had to manoeuvre himself around a conscious man – which was so much worse. “You could’ve asked me to move,” George grumbled, hauling himself up. Owen shrugged and sat down. George immediately slumped back against his side with a sigh, as if it was too much effort just to hold his head up.

The episodes slipped by, Owen more focused on the man resting against his shoulder than the hysterics of Mrs Bennet. Gradually, their breathing synced, each rise and fall of their chests bringing him closer to sleep himself. The sun was slowly setting now too, adding to the close atmosphere of the room.

“I love this part,” George said sleepily. Darcy and Elizabeth were driving away from the wedding, probably the first smile of the whole series spread across Colin Firth’s face. “It took them so long to get together, but it was worth it in the end.” Owen looked down at George, but he had already fallen asleep again. Clearly, he wasn’t aware of the double meaning of his words.

He let George drowse for a while longer. “Hey, uh, George,” he whispered, shaking his shoulder slightly, “do you want anything to eat? I’m going to go home in a bit, but if there’s anything I can do…”  
George twisted around to look at him blearily. “I’m not really hungry at the moment. But thank you.”  
Owen nodded. It was painful to see him so – so out of it, with no way to help beyond just being there. “Okay. Just thought I’d check.”

He stayed for another twenty minutes after that, mindful of his back stiffening up from being sat still for so long. “I’m going to head off now,” he murmured, lowering his head to George’s so the ill man wouldn’t have to sit up.  
George brought a hand up to his neck. It was clammy and hot, but Owen didn’t mind. “Okay. Thank you for looking after me.”

“No problem,” Owen said, pressing a quick kiss to George’s forehead before he could lose his nerve. “Text me later, yeah?” he continued, backing away towards the door.  
“Of course,” George said, drifting off again almost immediately. Owen let himself out quietly, hands shaking and blood rushing under his skin. He hadn’t just done that. He had. George had been so adamant about professionalism for so long, and then as soon as he was ill, Owen ignored him. He shook his head. It was definitely wrong, but it felt so good.

Fortunately, George didn’t seem to remember the kiss the next time they spoke, or at any point after that. All his attention was subsumed by the upcoming end of year play, which required a hell of a lot more preparation than Owen had ever realised before. After all, it was only corralling a hundred kids into place, making some of them recite a line or two, and then finishing off with a song,

Maybe he hadn’t been paying enough attention last year, but the hours that George was putting in were truly staggering. They hadn’t been able to meet up for the past few weeks because he was so busy working on the logistics and the risk assessment (who knew a few steps up to a stage could be so hazardous?). The previous week when Owen had called, the opening song had been running on a loop in the background and he’d caught himself humming it the next day.

“So, how much more do you think you’ll have to do before the kids actually start rehearsing?” Owen asked, sprawled over George’s sofa as the teacher tapped away at his laptop on the armchair.  
“Well, the dances are done for the songs, I’ve mostly got the costumes sorted, and the casting’s okay. Risk assessment was sent in on Wednesday, but the Year Two teacher’s kicking up a fuss about one of the scenes. I told her it was an important part of the play, but she thinks she knows better and wants to rewrite it.” He cut himself off with a frustrated grunt. Owen looked at him steadily. “Basically, the performance is the first week of July, so we start rehearsing halfway through June. That means I have one week to get everything sorted.” He yanked at his hair. “if Mrs Brown could just – get her act together, there wouldn’t be an issue.”

Owen smiled sympathetically. It was worse because he really had nothing to do now himself. The season was done, and he was only a backup for England’s summer tour so wouldn’t be travelling with the team. That meant his only job was a few hours in the gym every day and keeping Tommy fed and watered. “I could try and help, if you wanted?” he asked carefully, not wanting to set George off again. “Like, you could teach me the dance, and then I could teach Tommy. That would make your job a bit easier.”

George laughed, the lines on his forehead easing slightly. “Thanks, Owen. That could actually be useful, if Tommy then starts teaching it to the others. He’s a good kid; I wouldn’t be surprised.”  
Owen grinned. “Sounds like a plan. Show me the dance?”  
George snorted. “Absolutely not. I’ve written down the moves, so you can practise yourself and then I can correct you.”

Owen rolled his eyes and took the proffered paper. It didn’t look too hard – mostly repeating the same sequence during the chorus – but then he wasn’t trying to teach it to thirty small children. “I’ll just go in the kitchen, if that’s alright?” He wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of looking like a fool in front of George.  
“Mi casa es tu casa,” George said, already focused on the screen again.

Owen made his way through to the kitchen, as easily as if he were in his own house. He propped the sheet up on the side and slowly started to work through the movements. He laughed to himself as he performed a particularly shambolic step-twist combination. He would never have imagined being in this situation even six months ago, when George was still so prickly and defensive. Now, it was as natural as breathing.

The weeks until the performances hurtled by. Tommy became more and more hyped up, almost refusing to go to bed the night before the first show. Owen coerced him into bed and then immediately called George. The two most important guys in his life were both reacting in different ways to the impending show; where Tommy was getting more excited as the days slipped away, George was stressing out. Mrs Brown had admitted defeat a few weeks ago, so the script stood unchanged. But apparently the Year Two teacher was focusing on the class’s individual DT projects instead of the play, so their knowledge of the songs and the dances was shakier than the rest. George had ranted for five minutes about it the evening after he found out.

“Hey, mate,” George said tiredly, answering his call. “How’s it going?”  
Owen tried to make up for his friend’s lack of enthusiasm. “I’m looking forward to seeing the play tomorrow! You’ve put so much work into it; it’s going to be great.”  
“I hope so. As long as the bloody Year Twos know what they’re doing, everything should be okay.”

“Tommy’s really excited, too,” Owen continued. “He flat-out said he wasn’t going to bed for a good ten minutes. Obviously he went in the end, but it was the most rebellious he’s ever been!”  
He could hear the smile in George’s voice as he answered. “That’s so sweet. Our kid’s a good one, yeah?”  
“Of course he is – look at his dad!”

The conversation drifted for a while, before George decided he needed to just do one last check of everything, just in case. “Remember that it starts at 4:30, so you should be there by 4:15.” A tinge of uncertainty crept into his voice. “Is it just you there tomorrow?”  
“Georgie – Tommy’s mum – is coming, but we’re not sitting with each other. So, effectively, yes.”  
“Okay, yeah. That’s – that’s good. I just wanted to check.”

Owen felt the omnipresent hope in his heart expand a little. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one thinking about the approaching end of the school year. “Yeah, it’s just me for the time being. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow – and break a leg, if I don’t catch you beforehand.”  
“Thanks. Until tomorrow.” The call clicked off and Owen beamed. By nature and probably more by (lack of) nurture, George tended to play his cards very close to his chest. This was the clearest indication he’d had yet that George was interested. Three weeks remained in the school year, and then they would be free to see where the wind took them.

The next afternoon, Owen filed dutifully into the school hall with another two hundred family members. He took a seat in the second row back from the stage, as per Tommy’s instructions, and waited for the arrival of the kids. Most of the adults were talking quietly, so it was obvious when the crowd of children were approaching.

The door opened, and Owen, like all the other parents, craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Tommy amid the gaggle of pupils. There were so many tiny blond boys that in the end he gave up and directed his efforts towards finding George. It wasn’t difficult; even a small man like George stuck out like a giraffe in a herd of antelope.

He was directing the children into position with effortless authority, and Owen’s mind was suddenly cast back fifteen years to George marshalling his teammates around a pitch with the same ease. All this time, he realised, he’d been considering George leaving rugby as a shame, a waste of talent. But now he could see that George was still having an impact on those around him, and in a way that made him happy. There was nothing wrong with that.

George crouched down to speak to one of the kids, who was pulling away from the stage and shaking his head. Owen watched, rapt, as the teacher gently coaxed the little boy back towards the rest of the children. He handed the boy over to another pupil, who Owen recognised instantly as his own son.

Tommy beamed at George, who ruffled his hair quickly before moving on to organise the rest of the cast. Owen smiled softly. His son and his – his prospective boyfriend got on so well together. The outcome of all this seemed inevitable by now.

The play went off without a hitch, to the surprise of absolutely nobody. Owen knew that anything George Ford was bound to be a roaring success – their England U16 careers stood testament to that. He watched fondly as the children left the hall, hyped up on adrenaline and applause. He was warm with love for Tommy and George, and their future.

He was jolted out of his daydreaming by another parent tapping him on the shoulder. “I think the teachers want to pack up now,” she said with an awkward smile. Owen scrambled up, nodding his thanks to her and his apologies to the hovering teachers. He made his way to the Year One classroom, hoping to see George and congratulate him on the performance.

When he arrived, the room wasn’t quite in a state of pandemonium, but it was close. Two of the girls were crying in one corner, while a boy was running around with some part of their costumes – a hat? A scarf? Whatever it was, George was trying to reason with him to give it back. The LSA was holding the fort with all the other children on the other side of the room, preventing them from entering the fray.

“Hi,” Owen said, waving slightly to attract her attention. “I’m Tommy’s dad.”  
“Ah, Mr Farrell, of course,” she said knowingly. “George won’t stop talking about you.” Owen blushed at her coy expression. “Tommy was excellent tonight. You’re free to go when you’re ready.” She added conspiratorially, “I think George will be tied up with those three for a while, so it’s probably not worth waiting.” Owen flashed her an embarrassed smile and reached out for his son.

“Tommy – that was incredible! I loved the dancing,” he said, picking him up into a hug despite his protests. “I’m so proud of you.”  
Tommy squirmed. “Not in front of my friends, Dad. Put me down, please?”  
Owen reluctantly set him back down. “Have you said thank you to Mr Ford?”  
“Yes, I gave him the card and chocolate earlier. He went all red. It was weird.”  
“Hmm, that is strange,” Owen said, grinning at the imagined scene. “Can’t imagine why.”  
“Bye, Miss Jones,” Tommy said as they left the classroom.

“What do you want for tea, little guy?” Owen asked, walking down the corridor. “It’s your reward for doing so well in the play.”  
Tommy hummed. “Pizza? Mummy told me earlier to tell you I deserve pizza.”  
“Alright then,” Owen said, “if Mummy says so – pizza it is.”

It seemed like the end-of-term play was the last barrier between Owen and the promised land of the summer holidays. The days slipped past until it was the final day of the school year. Tommy had carefully drawn a card and wrapped a present for his teacher. Owen had to comfort him as he came out of school that afternoon, red in the face and sniffing.

“I – I don’t want to go into Year Two,” he mumbled. “Jack’s big brother says it’s so hard, and I don’t want Mrs Lane to teach me. She’s _so_ scary. I want Mr Ford.” At his teacher’s name, Tommy burst into tears, clutching at Owen’s leg. Conscious that all the other parents were watching his son’s breakdown, he gently prised him off and picked him up in a hug.  
“How about we go back in and you can say goodbye to Mr Ford properly, hmm?”  
Tommy nodded, arms tight around Owen’s neck. He started walking towards the classroom.

He knew he was essentially taking advantage of his son’s distress, but he also needed confirmation that their unspoken deal – that when George was no longer Tommy’s teacher, there was nothing stopping them anymore – was still on the table.

He came to a stop outside the Year One classroom and knocked on the door. “Come in,” George called from inside.  
Owen opened the door and backed in, Tommy clinging to him like a koala. “Hey, uh – I’m really sorry about this…”  
George seemed to register who it was, and his face took on a wistful look. “Oh, Tommy.”

“He’s really upset about leaving your class,” Owen said, rocking his son slightly. “Would you mind…?”  
George nodded immediately. “Of course.” Owen set Tommy down, a flutter in his heart as Tommy ran to his teacher. “Hi, Tommy,” he heard George say softly, and the rest of their conversation was inaudible from his position at the other end of the room.

Gradually, the tears were replaced by smiles. Owen silently thanked whoever had given George this gift with children – there was no way he could have got Tommy out of his funk. He also wasn’t opposed to seeing his son and best friend/prospective partner (it was so close now) interact.

After a few minutes, Tommy walked back to his father, tugging George by the hand, who was smiling wryly. “I told Mr Ford about my holiday with Mummy next week,” he said importantly, “and Mr Ford said _he_’s going to France soon. Can we go to France, Dad?”  
Owen raised his eyebrows at George before answering. “Maybe if you’re good, Tom. Now, have you remembered all your things?” Tommy nodded, holding out his schoolbag. “Okay – how about you check again?” The little boy ran off unquestioningly.

“Nice one,” George said, smirking.  
“Okay, whatever,” Owen said. It didn’t matter how transparent his methods were for getting rid of Tommy for a few minutes – it had worked. “So, you’re going to France?”  
“Yeah – on Sunday morning for ten days,” George replied easily.  
“Well, Tommy’s with his mum for two weeks so – y’know – if you were interested…”

“In what, Mr Farrell?” George said archly, crossing his arms and grinning.  
“You know damn well what,” Owen said, frowning.  
“Sorry, I think I’ve got end-of-term brain. Remind me?”  
“There is no way that is a thing, first of all, and secondly – you’re really going to make me say it?”  
“We’ve spent so long doing this the right way,” George said, some of the snark going out of his smile, “that it would be stupid to stop now. Please?”

“Alright.” Owen heaved out a sigh. “When you come back from France, will you go on a date with me? You won’t be Tommy’s teacher then.”  
George opened his mouth to reply, when there was a gasp from between them. Owen looked down. Clearly, Tommy had been too well trained. “You’re going on a date with Mr Ford, Dad?” Owen shot a panicked look at George, who seemed just as flustered. “That’s cool.” Owen stared at his six-year-old son, who was taking this development remarkably well. “Does that mean Mr Ford will come and live with us, like Mummy used to?”

George crouched down to Tommy’s eye level. “Maybe, Tommy. Your dad and I like each other very much, but we need a bit of practice at spending time together before we live in the same house. It’s like you and your times tables, right? You don’t just jump straight in with the fives – you’ve got to start with the twos.”  
Tommy looked up at his father. “Really, Dad? So I get to see Mr Ford again, but he doesn’t make me do work?” Owen nodded fondly as Tommy grabbed George in a hug. “I’ll see you soon then, Mr Ford!” Before George had had a chance to react, Tommy had scampered away to the door. “Come on, Dad,” he groaned, shaking his head. “It’s home time.”

Owen smiled softly at George, reaching out and touching his shoulder. “I’ll text you, okay? Have a good time in France.”  
George brought his hand up to cover Owen’s. “I’ll keep you updated. Have a good holiday.”

Owen reluctantly pulled away, hearing Tommy’s grumbling rising in volume. “Let’s go then, Tommy. Ice cream?” His son yelled his agreement and ran off down the corridor. “See you soon,” he whispered to George, committing the sight of him, flushed red in the middle of a deserted classroom, to memory before turning away to follow Tommy outside.

The house was quieter with Tommy away. Obviously Owen was used to silent weekends, but the long stretches of the summer months when he didn’t see his son were always tough. Almost by way of distraction, he pulled out his phone to text George.

_Hey :) not much to do now Tommy’s not here – how’s France?_

_Very warm! I’ll be back on Tuesday, if you’re interested ;)_

_Come round Wednesday? _

_Of course :D Been looking forward to it for months_

_Same_

_See you soon x_

_Wednesday x_

Owen smiled, alone in his empty house. It was funny how the slightest hint of flirting could get him excited now – although it had been years since he’d had the chance… But George was different, he knew. They’d both suffered for their sexuality but made it out the other side, filling the spaces left behind as they went along.

And Owen liked George. Really, really liked him. Maybe they could have had something years ago if Owen had got his head out of his arse faster, but it was probably for the best. Adults could have an adult relationship, instead of screwing it up like teenagers. He never wanted to hurt George. He was too special, too precious, like a rare flower.

He spent the next eight days coming up with increasingly ridiculous descriptions of his feelings for George, at one point even venturing to write some of it down. Owen supposed it could be called a poem, if not for his lack of any creative talent. The emotion came across well though, he thought, looking at his scrawled lines. But it wasn’t good enough to share with George yet; he deserved better.

The day had finally come. Owen had cleaned the entire house in a panic-induced frenzy, washing the floors, changing the bedsheets, and even mowing the front lawn. He didn’t know what George was expecting, but he wanted to look vaguely on top of things to impress him.

It was a sunny day in late July, almost eight months on from their first meeting in years. Owen’s love for George had only grown over that time, even in its state of isolation. Hopefully he would be able to convey that to George without scaring him off.

A car pulled into the driveway and the engine stopped. Owen jumped up, hastily swiping at his hair and tugging at his shirt. A fraction of a second before he could open the door, the bell rang.

He pulled it open. “Hi, Owen,” George said, smiling easily. The time in France looked good on him. He was tanned and less fraught than during the school year.  
“Good afternoon, Mr Ford,” Owen said with a grin. “Can I help you?”

George rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mr Farrell. You can stop being stupid, let me inside, and kiss me.”  
“Well, if you insist,” Owen said, extending an arm into the house with a flourish.

He had barely turned back from locking the door when he was pushed against the wall by George. “I’ve been waiting so long for this,” George breathed. “Let’s make it good.”  
“We will,” Owen promised, gaze dropping to George’s mouth.

And they did.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about writing something about the World Cup (and I promise you there are a few things in the works), but I couldn't bring myself to relive it just yet. So be patient on that front, and please accept this escapist offering in the meantime!


End file.
